Diablo: Zakarum's Betrayal
by Dante-Raven
Summary: An old Paladin reflects on the events that caused the betrayal of the Zakarum Church and ultimately led him to his destiny.
1. Prologue

**Diablo**

**Zakarum's Betrayal**

_Prologue _

The wind's bite had frozen almost all of his joints. The man, no more than 56, felt age catching up with him. It was always this way during the cold season. The flurries of snow had continued unabated and the chill had continued to permeate through his heavy cloak and fur clothing. His bones had become stiff and his movement was slowing. The snow had covered most of his white hair, freezing his already pale skin.

He heard the scream again. It echoed over the howling of the wind itself, carrying the scream towards the man. A renewed surge of strength came over him, pushing the man to move faster. _I need to get to her_, he thought to himself as his legs kicked away the rising bed of snow. He withdrew his longsword, the consecrated blade of the Paladins of the church of Zakarum. The blade appeared to be nothing magical; yet effectively, it was a holy-water tipped blade. The hilt of his blade had the cross that symbolically signified the purity of one, who must face the dangers and challenges, life—and evil—threw at him.

As he continued to trudge through the snow, he found his mark. A young woman had been cornered by a trio of men who seemed more than enticed at what their bounty had to offer. Across from the highwaymen, lay a caravan that had fallen over, bodies lay strewn on the bed. The snow was gulping amorously at the vast amount of blood from the bodies of dead men. The woman was certainly alone and the men were eager to seek their prize.

He squinted his almond shaped eyes, falling into a charging stance and eager to use surprise to his advantage. Charging, at the leader of the trio, he couldn't help but usher a war cry from the days of his youth, long since past.

The trio turned around, surprised that they had missed someone from the caravan. It was far too late, though, for the old man drove his blade through the chest of the leader, a large, bald man with a broken nose.

In shock, the other two men jumped back, reaching for their weapons they carelessly sheathed. The old man had retrieved his weapon from the chest of the dead man and he got up to watch a very thin and lanky man run at him with a rather large axe aimed for his head. Dodging, the old man watched the much younger man cleave the air and strike his blade into the body of his beloved leader. He gasped as he watched himself strike true and cleave right through the chest of the dead man.

The old man, however, had lost no momentum and cleanly sliced through the belly of the axe man. The younger man looked down and gasped, screaming with all of his might at the pain and imminent death that awaited him. The snow continued to enjoy the beverage that the old man delivered to it. The third man, however, came striking at the old man's back, eager to put an end to this and have the woman all to himself.

As luck would have it, the older man anticipated as much—heeding the warning from the lady's screaming. He spun around blocking the first downward slash from the young highwayman, who happened to be wielding _two_ short swords—the Gladius. Withdrawing a dirk from the sheath on the other side of his hip, he blocked the second slash that aimed for his own belly, much like the highwayman's unfortunate companion—who happened to be running around as the blood continued to pour out of his body.

Growling, the highwayman spun about, eager to slice one of his blades across the man's cheek, but once more, the old man was there to block it. In all of his cumbersome clothing, the old man moved incredibly fast, compared to the younger man, who was much more lightly clothed. In one sweeping instant, the old man sliced right through the leather armour of the younger man, killing him, while one of the Gladius' flew into the furred coat of the old man, driving itself into the ribcage of the older man.

As the young highwayman dropped to the ground, screaming in agony, the old man struggled to keep his balance. If he fell, it would mean the end of him and the innocent woman. He turned around, surveying the senseless death around him, the memories of too many battles he had seen, and too many horrors he had faced began to stalk him. Remembering the woman who had lay there mortified, he turned around—also in part to escape the recurring nightmares he had within himself—and looked at the young woman.

"It is safe now, milady," his warm voice not faltering for a moment from the immensity of the pain that wracked itself over his body. The fight and the wound had taken more of him than he had hoped for. He knew he was feeling the rush of warmth leaving his body. Weariness seemed ready to bear its arms open, eager to await the man's embrace of his own mortality.

Cautiously, the woman—a maiden no more than 17—rose, embracing in his arms and crying out. She knew the man was a honourable one. She knew he was a Paladin, a fabled holy warrior fighting for the Light against the ever-increasing forces of Chaos in the world. She cried, pouring her heart out to the old man, in gratitude for saving her life and for risking his own life against three younger and battle-hardened men.

He pulled her away from him, only to look at her face—only to see darkness-- and let her know that they had to leave. His salve and potions were in his home, not far away. The storm had abated, if only for a few moments. "Mistress, it would be most prudent if we left," he said. She only nodded and reluctantly let go, wishing to be held in his warmth.

As they left the bodies of the men of the caravan and the bandits, neither of them looked back, none too eager to replay the memory of what had transpired…

* * *

They trudged through the rising fort of snow, both of them eager to make their way into the warm cabin. Kicking aside the endless tufts of white, the older man held the hand of the young maiden, eager to get her some warmth—and to find the healing salves before he bled to death. As it stood, his fur clothing had held the wound in place, the sweat on his body stinging and mincing with the scarlet liquid. They had found the home, still piping smoke from its chimney, well lit and homely. _Just a few more yards_, he thought to himself. He had forced himself to remember his days of training, the pain he had taken from all of his conflicts. _I will get out of this one yet_, he grinned determinedly.

After they reached the door and entered the home, the girl found herself in awe: the home was warm, solid wood floor with some furred carpeting and a fireplace with two comfortable chairs and a stool. She walked towards the fireplace, eager to stay warm and she dusted off her cloak, throwing away loose bits of snow. Her face remained shrouded in the darkness, hiding her image and taking care not to reveal the eyes and face behind the image.

He understood her need to keep herself hidden away. He may have been a Paladin, but even sometimes a holy warrior could be tempted to succumb to the hunger and temptations of the flesh. After he removed his weapons—nearly doubling over from the pain that ate away at him—he moved sluggishly towards the salves.

She took care not to notice. He had risked much for saving her life. For that, she was grateful.

Carefully removing his shirt, the old man nearly gasped with the strain of movement. He moved towards a mirror, gazing at the wound through the reflection. He gasped as he spoke a few soft words, chanting a minor spell to hold him at bay. He collapsed, knocking over a table that lay next to the mirror. The spell had taken some strength out of him. Death was calling sweetly towards him. Its ever-lasting sleep enticed him. _Just a few more moments_. He smiled to himself-- somewhat in self-pity that he had come this far in his life only to fall to the blade of some hapless highwayman. _I will be home soon, my dear Raine._

The younger woman leapt off her seat, when she heard a crash in the other room. She moved through the modestly furnished home and gasped as she saw the older man lying on the ground with a wound on his right side. The wound had partially closed, but there was no doubt the old man had sustained more than a minor cut. She moved towards him, and with startling strength, lifted the man towards the bed that lay right beside the mirror. She had held him close to her as if he were an infant. He had felt the warmth of her skin, the warmth of another. The warmth of _her_.

"Raine," he whispered, as the woman carried him to the bed.

"Call me Katya," she said softly. As she lay him down, she found the salve lying on the floor. He hadn't rubbed it on his body yet. She retrieved the item and finding a solid oak chair, she sat down and began to rub the salve over his body. The pale skin was cool, but warmed when her hands and the salve touched it.

"Tell me, who was she?" The young woman was eager to keep him alive. Time was taking its toll on his tired, worn body.

His eyes were closed. The darkness continued to wrap itself around him. Embracing him. Memories of _her_ continued to flutter around him. The warmth and scent of the young woman brought those beautiful images of _her_ back to him. The voice had strangely sounded like hers. He could only smile warmly at the thought of her. Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw the cloaked woman. He could only make out the locks of her chestnut brown hair flowing seamlessly. "She was the one who brought me here."

"Pray, tell me more," she asked, genuine interest had crept into her tone. There was no doubt that admiration had also entered her voice. Something had peaked her curiousity, be it fear of loneliness or wanting to know about the man's legacy before he died. They both had time, of course, for the storm had picked up and would continue into the night. He had time, lest death took him.

"It is a long story," he said. "It began when we were newly knighted Paladins, in the church of Zakarum. Of course, we thought we were the warriors of the Light. If only we had seen what was to occur…"


	2. The Forging of Destiny

_The Forging of Destiny_

Faerel Darklancer had walked from the archbishop, who had just knighted him as a Paladin of the Zakarum faithful. He couldn't stop grinning. He had found himself waiting to join his colleagues in the field of honour, aiding those who needed assistance and warding off the foul legions of Hell's minions. He had worn his silver full-plated armour that signified his position as a Paladin. He had just received a consecrated longsword, adorned with a single cruciform on the hilt of the blade. The weapon had no other special décor, as it seemed like any other blade. The young man also managed to keep the bastard sword that had been in his family's legacy. The larger weapon had seemed more along the lines of a true cruciform, as its blade appeared dull and point flattened. To an expert, the weapon was sharp, well balanced and happened to have a subtly rounded but deadly edge. The sword was in his bunk, but he knew he would sling it on his back once he joined the outside world.

The rise of demons lately had been terrifying. Several towns had been destroyed and many survivors had petitioned the king of Westmarch to do something about it. There were all kinds of creatures that lurked outside. The recent devastation towards the Rogues in the west, between Westmarch and Tristram had caught the attention of the king and even the Zakarum. Many of the creatures had found their way towards Lut Gholein, the golden jewel in the east, but as always, they were repelled. The golden jewel had been built over the site of a Vizjerei sorcerer and the magic he had wielded now formed a protective barrier around the city.

It was guaranteed the young Paladin would find a demon and make his mark known throughout the hells. Walking towards a trio of newly knighted Paladins, Faerel grinned widely and joined his friends in their own excitement as well.

"Well well, what have we here? Seems to me that the ol' archbishop made a mistake. You know that the demons love pretty boys like you," came the greeting of Darin Fallan.

"Seems to me that the demons should. After all, the demons will probably mistake you for one of their own," Faerel replied, his grin never fading.

The two Paladins had been friends since they were 7, going to school and earning a great education. It so happened that both of their fathers were good friends and both wealthy merchants within Westmarch.

The young man had turned his head and noticed another fellow friend. She stood slightly shorter than the young man himself, just reaching at his nose. Her skin was bronze and she had chestnut brown hair that reached her shoulders. There was no doubt she was beautiful. Her armour was much more supple and lighter than the cumbersome armour her male companions wore. Her armour—silver chainmail-- shone with brilliant silver, with the symbol of the church on the center of her armour as well as the other Paladins. "Raine," he said. Her soft brown eyes always revealed a gentleness and fondness she felt towards the young man.

"Congratulations," she said, smiling amicably. "You're going to join us now, right?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Um… where are we headed?"

His trio of friends looked to each other and laughed for a few moments, realizing that he had not received his orders yet. It was the large, fiery maned Gregorius Radian who spoke up. "We're headin' to some town call'd Vernon Falls." The large golden coloured man smiled, revealing all of his teeth. He had specially fitted full-plated armour that could never seem to have the same gleam of silver that his companions had. He also happened to wield a rather large claymore that had been consecrated, since longswords appeared to be nothing more than shortswords to him. Oddly enough, the weapon had the engraving "GR" on it. He had been found on the doorsteps of a monastery, a lone baby with the rather large weapon. He had no parents. It was most likely that they had been killed. As it would soon turn out, Gregorius hailed from the northern barbarian tribes. It was believed he might have actually come from as far as Harrogath, but that concept was only a rumour.

"Vernon Falls?" The younger man was certainly puzzled. "Why would they do something like that?"

"Because there happened to be a sighting of a few demons. As holy warriors of the Light, it is our duty to make sure that the minions of the Prime Evils return to their homeland. Now come on, let's get going," the energetic Darin replied.

As the group made their way towards their bunks within the barracks, the archbishop Dalarus, moved further into the antechamber. The ceremony was over and he was tired. He had succeeded the archbishop Lazarus after he had a fateful encounter within Tristram. As it had turned out, Lazarus had sold out the king's son, allowing the demon Diablo to encompass the young man's body. A warrior had killed Lazarus—who had been corrupted by the demon's power—and was forced to kill Diablo, sacrificing the poor prince's life in the process.

The older man, no more than 68, rested comfortably in his chair. He had grown weary, his body was tired and the old man found himself beckoning the call of Heaven's light. He had lived a long time, aiding fellow young Paladins towards fighting for the Light and all that was holy.

A younger man, his soon-to-be-successor, Horus, came to the older man. He was dressed in white robes, a ceremonial gown that covered his feet but did not drag on the ground itself. His black hair had been short and formed a bowl around his own head. His visage seemed to permanently form itself into a sarcastic expression. He nodded respectfully towards the old man, presenting him with a goblet of wine. "Father," he said, "your wine."

The old man took the goblet gratefully, eager to drink it. "Thank you, my son. Now leave me, please. I am tired and weary."

The younger man bowed and left the antechamber, turning himself around the corner of the crimson curtains that had marked the area. _Now we shall wait and see_, he thought. His expression turned into a snakelike smile. There had been no doubt that the old man was a kind gentle soul, but he was frail and dying. Horus was eager to accelerate the man's progress to the Light—or the Hells, if need be.

As the archbishop gulped generously from the cup, he didn't notice the swirl of a black cloud form above him, on the ceiling. The cloud continued to grow, no one in the room noticed. The cloud was a deep purple nimbus, with sparks of miniature lightning striking within itself. He had paused for a few moments, feeling a sharp pain within his chest. As he began to gasp for breath, his vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. He found himself being assailed by more pain that continued throughout his body. His head joined the growing amount of pain. His eyes were closed as he tried to center and calm himself. He began chanting a few words, only to feel the pain continuing to wrack itself around him. _I don't understand_, he thought. _How can this be? My healing ward does not help. The pain continues to grow._

_It is a poison beyond your healing skills, old man,_ boomed a deep voice within archbishop's skull.

The old man opened his eyes, feeling the voice resonating against his bones that were grinding. What he saw before him was an unmistakable sight of horror.

The room had become darker; the crimson robes were tattered and torn, dripping a generous amount of scarlet blood. He continued to be assailed by this vision as he looked along the wall to notice the blocks of stone were mossy and unkempt. The room was lit with candles, the sky was black and the acrylic windows that embodied the artistic paintings of the archangels were smashed. The guards who stood near the moldy wooden gateway were skeletons in dilapidated armour. The guards were slightly decomposed, in moldy red and gold and stained silver armour. Their spears were drenched in blood. In the center of the chamber itself, stood two figures. The first was a young man, who wore the white robes of an archbishop. The young man's hair was black and short. His expression always seemed dour. It was Horus, in a bloodstained archbishop's robes. Behind him was something infinitely more terrifying.

The creature stood tall and proud, reaching as tall as 9 feet. It had the skeleton of a man, with the organs displayed and secured within its midsection. The heart continued to beat, its rhythmic melody filling the silence of the horror. It had the feet shaped like a man, but the toes were claws as the hands were talons. The skull seemed more beast-like, with long canine teeth and its long down sweeping horns. The creature had its mouth open; its long glistening red tongue reached the young man's face as it bent to taste him. Its eye-sockets were filled with black endless eyes that seemed to pierce into the old man's hapless soul. As the creature moved from the young man towards Dalarus, the ground shook beneath them, several tapestries dropping from its ancient and unkempt holders. Thick, venomous ash flew from its body as it moved towards the poor man. The smoke shrouded its bones, dancing slowly into the air and dissipating as the creature came face to face with the terrified archbishop of the Zakarum. There was no doubt that this creature was a demon.

Demons, of course, had no power to enter the church, due to the fact that it would burn and be destroyed if it entered a holy and sanctified place. Ostensibly, that fact was moot as this demon had entered the church itself without any injury or harm. It also appeared that Lazarus must have done more than just sell his soul. He must have profaned the very thing that had been a guiding beacon of Light.

"Do you wish to die, old man?" Its voice rumbled through the air, a deep, booming voice that spoke as if thousands of voices were speaking.

Forgetting his momentary lapse of pain, the archbishop bravely replied, "you will find only death and banishment to the Hells with you, demon!"

"How can you achieve this when you are merely weak and cannot defend yourself, old man?" He mused. The creature let out a raucous laughter that shook the antechamber around the two.

"I will see you burned to the ground for desecrating the holy temple!" As the older man tried to get up, he found himself strangely grafted on the chair he had come to love. "What is this! Your vile demonic tricks will not work on me, I am a servant of the Light. A warrior of the Archangel Yaerius himself!"

The creature once more laughed, sending chills down the old man's spine. "Your archangel has forsaken this tomb, you ignorant fool! If you do not wish to fall into my service, then you shall find yourself falling into oblivion." His hand encompassed the old man's skull, where he uttered several words that no human tongue could possibly seek to master.

As the old man cried out, he was encompassed in bright blue flames for a few moments before the demon let go of the former archbishop, only to find the charred husk of a frail old man sitting in the chair. The husk revealed the orange glow of burning embers on the body of the old man. There was no sickly sweet odour of burnt flesh.

As the demon turned around, he found his quarry standing firm and eager for his posting as a man of great power. Power only the demon, Praxidikus, could give to the young man. "Are you happy now, demon?" The young man's voice was filled with sarcasm and disdain directed at the demon. He knew that the creature could spell the doom of them both as they could have been found out by some hapless priest who walked into the room at the wrong moment.

"I needed his soul, his power and devotion towards the Light made him a delicious target. It is now done, Horus Memnon. You are now the archbishop and we can now use this power to enslave more." He paused for a few moments and then in a purring tone, he added, "including that king of yours." It was apparent that the creature had desired more from the beginning of their relationship, yet the young man knew that he had much to gain from their fragile alliance. The one thing that kept both of them working together was the fact that they were bound to each other. It occurred when Horus had uncovered the tomb and dungeon beneath the Zakarum cathedral and the demon had promised him limitless power. Binding the demon to himself was the only way to bring the demon out from the netherworld that was his prison. The lure of power was very strong indeed. It would be beneficial to them both, especially since Mephisto was buried under Kurast's Zakarum temple and would never escape.

The cathedral had returned to normal, with the exception of the archbishop, who now sat on his chair, burnt to a crisp. The demon had also happened to disappear with the illusion. The creature had given the man an involuntary shudder everytime he came near.

Horus walked towards the smoking husk and threw the body aside, eager to dust off the chair himself. As he sat down, he looked at the remains of the man who was the archbishop of the Zakarum church and he chuckled to himself. "Ah, old man. It is a pity that you chose to defy the demon. Oh well, at least you've found some peace at last. Now I can rule and I will not be stopped." He smiled deviously. He got up and knelt to the body of the dead man. Wrapping his arms around the charred remains, he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Somebody! Help! The archbishop has been murdered!"


	3. First Encounter

_First Encounter _

It was raining heavily in Vernon Falls. The tall oak trees, that could almost touch the heavens itself, revealed its deep green leaves with its sparse assortment of red, orange and yellow leaves. The season was close to the harvest. The rain seemed to fall profusely, eager to encompass all that walked into its path. The clouds above were a hint of grey—almost to the shade of silver. It continued to pour generously over the town, soaking children that were playing outside and cooling the men who worked in the forges.

The grass rivaled the brilliant emerald gems found in Lut Gholein or even Westmarch. The town seemed very homely. Almost as if it were a place where solace would never exist, yet its generous nature could stop the very prospect of war. The town had found itself located near a large river that ran into the open sea itself-- few ships ever went there. It was believed that those who went there, stayed there. Shortly to the north of the settlement, the river had a large waterfall that was named after the man who founded the town—Vernon. The people of Vernon Falls never asked for much, eager to strike out on their own and secure in the knowledge that all they would ever need was around them.

Of course, the friendly town had found itself in a dire situation. Many children had been found with a tattoo etched into their foreheads. The symbol formed a pentagonal star pointing towards the earth itself. The star was surrounded with a circle and just outside of that circle was a diamond that encased both signatures. The cattle and other livestock had become complacent, some even began to collapse and die. The women were slowly becoming pale, their pink complexions sullied along with the beauty and flower of even the young girls. The insidious demon at work had begun to take its toll on the townsfolk. The creature had begun to feed on the wills and life within the settlement.

As they entered the port, the four Paladins were awestruck with the sight of the bustling little town. The area the folk of Vernon Falls had founded was of stark beauty. After a few more moments, Darin had decided to speak up, realizing that his companions had gaping jaws, similar to himself.

"Well, this is something you certainly don't see everyday."

"Definitely," replied the awestruck Faerel.

As they made their way through the town after their vessel docked, the group found that many of the citizens—particularly the women and young girls—refused to leave their homes. Vernon Falls had effectively made the transition from a bustling port town to a ghost town. Faerel looked around; the rain had begun to pour softly. It was relenting to the calm demeanour of the port town.

The group had begun walking towards a large structure that outlined itself as a Duke's manor, only to be stopped by a dour, pale and saddened figured, hunched over and requiring the support of a staff that nearly seemed to tower over the poor figure.

"Do ye go near the Demon?"

"Of course," Darin answered, looking at the cloaked figure cautiously.

"It will only bring ye pain and damnation. Not even the holiness and light can stop _him_!" He hissed.

Raine walked over to the figure, carefully removing the hood of the figure, revealing nothing more than a broken, blind old man. She looked at the pair and nodded. "I'll be fine," she said, as she noticed the old man was forcibly made blind. Dried blood—_recent_ blood—caked over the empty sockets, leaving nothing but traces of pain that wracked itself across the man's face.

She produced, from the folds of her cloak over her light, supple armour, a phial of crisp, clear liquid. "I'll stay with him—you three can handle a demon without my aid, right?" She asked them, tilting her head in a teasing manner.

Gregorius laughed heartily, the red-mane of hair shaking along with the giant. "We'll go, but ye better be safe!" He slung his claymore off his shoulders, gripping it as he looked at his two comrades, who merely nodded as they brandished their longswords.

Letting out a warcry, the barbarian Paladin raced into the eroded and worn chateau, breaking down the gate and continuing to race towards the doors. As Gregorius smashed through the doors, Faerel and Darin close behind, the trio stopped as they entered the worn interior.

Inside the vestibule lay nothing, except for a massive chamber that carried a throne and what appeared to be a harem. The luxurious pillows and velvet cloths and exotic perfumes littered the chamber, as the trio continued to walk towards the figure that sat on the throne.

He was clad in the most elegant of clothing, dressed in a rich velvet suit, as the cufflinks were embroidered in a white pattern that matched the white gloves that covered his hands. His long blond hair was tied elegantly back, as his deep blue eyes matched his pale skin. He greeted the trio, as he rose, "welcome to my humble abode, gentlemen."

He chuckled, as he looked at the three men, obviously aware that they were Paladins.

On both sides of his throne—and on the rather luxurious harem-style pillows—, sat beautiful, naked young women, obviously from the port town. Their glazed expressions and lack of will and awareness informed the Paladins that these women had long since lost their minds. The demon's insignia had found itself etched into their foreheads.

Darin sighed sadly, knowing that the women would be forced to do the demon's bidding without any will of their own. He knew that inevitably, the women would be forced to die at the hands of the Paladins—thinking that they were protecting their master.

"Please, do sit down, put away your weapons," the male said warmly, spreading his arms widely to either side. "I mean you no harm." His tone appeared amused, yet somehow the darker undercurrents could be felt by the trio. "Perhaps you would like something to eat?" He said, as he rested comfortably on his throne, eyeing the men with warm comfort. "Or perhaps," he grinned slyly, "you would prefer some _company_?"

Darin clenched his teeth, undoubtedly aware that Faerel was doing the same.

Gregorius merely growled as he gripped his handle tighter, turning his knuckles bare white.

"Oh come now," the figure said, with a casual wave of a hand, "we can all be friends, can't we?"

"What you've done is cruel and a mere mockery of _friendship_," Faerel said through gritted teeth.

"I've merely done what any normal man," he chuckled, "would do—would _dream_ of!"

"You're a bane of the Light and you must be put down," Darin said equally, his soft voice echoing through the chamber.

The demon sighed. "Very well, you leave me with no choice." He closed his eyes and rose, opening them once more to reveal crimson eyes where there were once soft blue eyes. He gestured and closed the doors, sending a chill of wind rushing through the broken home, as the trio stood their ground.

In a blur, the females rose, as the demon uttered several words that somehow turned the females into something unholy—something _profane_. Their skin became scaly, as their hands formed into claws, and talon-sharp tails grew from their body.

The trio broke off into a defensive position, as Darin sheathed his sword and began to utter words from the blessings of the Light. Pure white energy began to form in his hands as Gregorius and Faerel protected him.

"Get down!" Darin muttered as he extended his hands, sending forth holy bolts that crashed into the demon and the mutating women.

The demon groaned as he was sent back, crashing into his throne, as it rotated and collapsed.

The women merely groaned and screamed as they stopped in mid-transformation.

"Get them!" The demon hissed, his voice seething with rage.

The half-altered females raced towards the trio, hissing as they slashed and sent their tails striking for the hearts of the men.

"I think you might have over done it!" Faerel warned as they split up, taking on four demon women respectively.

"Well Raine is the magician! Not me!" Darin replied.

"Shut up and fight!" Gregorius yelled as he swung his sword in a semi-circle, sending the demons back.

Undeterred, the females hissed and leapt hungrily for the giant.

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry it has taken me this long to write another chapter, but I've been busy with finals and previously my computer had died out on me, forcing me to format everything in the process. I will be writing more soon in the coming weeks and I want to take the time to thank you all for reading thus far. **


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